


insight

by peggycarterisacat



Series: Rarepairs Week 2018 [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (See notes) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, retitled this because titling things is literally the worst, side story to a wip but can stand alone, the Dayne family is full of secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggycarterisacat/pseuds/peggycarterisacat
Summary: He got used to keeping his curtains closed at night because she appeared whenever she pleased, moving quietly enough that he had little warning. The locks were always undisturbed, and whenever he asked how she entered or exited, she only smiled. "Guess," she said, but he didn't know where to begin.There were moments when it was easy to forget all that loomed ahead — moments it seemed like she'd forgotten for a moment, too. But these acts of rebellion were small, in the grand scheme of things. She sampled spirits from his liquor cabinet, things that ladies weren't supposed to touch, and liked most of them. He tried to teach her to smoke cigars, which she deemed disgusting. And sometimes they went, disguised, to gambling halls, and she would make a tidy sum playing at cards.More often there was an anger that simmered deep within her, in danger of boiling over.Reality was, she was engaged to another.





	insight

**Author's Note:**

> for Rarepairs week on tumblr. day 7: free day!
> 
> This is a side story to a WIP I'm working on (a lady's justice, sansa/willas) -- I've summarized the important points here so you don't have to go read the entire thing in order to read this. 
> 
> Background: Regency AU where Joffrey started abusing Sansa earlier, Ned found out, and got them out of King's Landing immediately. Three years later, Robb, Sansa, and Arya are back in KL. 
> 
> First scene is an extension of chapter 6, the rest runs parallel to 9-13 or so. 
> 
> When this starts, Arya just had an argument with Sansa where she learns that: Ned was killed by the Lannisters (more ambiguous circumstances than in canon), and they are all still in danger. Arya is furious and ran off because she's been saying the Lannisters are shady since the beginning and no one listened to her. 
> 
> There's also a bit near the end where they're trying to figure out who "Mr. Stone" is -- that is Sansa's pen name.

 

He found her crying in a copse of trees in one of the long, rambling parks on Rhaenys's Hill. He'd passed the two young ladies about half an hour earlier — though they looked little alike, they both wore the grey of half-mourning, so perhaps they were sisters — and laughed a little at the snatch of argument he'd overheard.

_ Loras Tyrell, nothing but a dandy—  _ It wasn't a polite thing to say, but there was a note of truth to it. There was no point in denying that the man was talented at just about everything he did, or that he liked to be seen doing it.

"Miss," he said quietly, searching through his pockets for a handkerchief. "Are you alright?"

She looked up at him and laughed exactly once before dissolving again into sniffles. "Sansa would be furious with me if she knew anyone'd seen me looking such a mess," she said, taking the handkerchief he offered.

"Your sister?" he asked. He didn't have any siblings, but sometimes when Aunt Allyria was in the right mood and told stories of her childhood and how much Aunt Ashara had once vexed her, she spoke with the same sort of exasperation. There was a tinge of fondness, no matter how slight.

She nodded.

"Then I haven't seen a thing," he said.

_ Sansa _ was an unusual name, and a familiar one. That the Starks had returned to town after three years' absence and a broken engagement was big news all around the city, complete with all kinds of gossip circulating. Lord Stark was disinterested in politics. Lord Stark was only interested in Northern disputes. Lord Stark was quietly plotting for Northern independence. Miss Stark's exclusivity was calculated to stir up interest. Miss Stark was snobbish and stuck to her own company. Miss Stark resented the Crown and snubbed all the courtiers out of spite.

Miss Arya was a wild, opinionated creature who hardly deserved the title of  _ lady. _ Miss Arya was kind and clever and charming. Miss Arya made friends beneath her station and needed guidance to the proper way of things.

Any bit of hearsay might or might not be true, and Ned wasn't interested in the speculation. But he was curious about the Starks — he'd heard stories ever since he was a child. About his namesake, the late Lord Stark, and Jon Snow.

"Does your sister know where you are?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I ran."

"You argued?" he asked. She didn't answer, staring sullenly over the landscape. Ned felt ill-equipped to respond to that. "Shall I see you home?" he tried again, but seeing her frown— "Or not quite yet?"

"We argued, but it's  _ not _ my fault," she said. "She's stupid and she always lies."

He hesitated. "It doesn't excuse that she hurt you, but lies aren't always badly intentioned," he said. His family was steward to lies; so many that he couldn't begin to guess what he had yet to unearth. Lies told for so long that they'd overwritten the truth.

"It's still selfish and stupid. If she'd just told me, I would have— I wouldn't have—" She growled, frustrated. "If she had  _ listened  _ to me— she acts like she knows everything, but she doesn't."

"Does she know now?"

"What?"

"Does she understand why she was wrong?"

Miss Arya hesitated. "She said she's sorry. But that doesn't mean anything."

"It means she's learned. She won't do it again."

"You don't even  _ know  _ her and you're taking her side," she snapped. "You have no idea what happened."

"You're right. I don't know." He didn't know what it was to have siblings, either, and he didn't remember much of his father. But Aunt Allyria's pain was an ever-present thing that haunted the halls of their home.

_ If I could only see them again, _ she'd said, late at night while they waited to welcome the new year. She only ever spoke of them when she could look up at the stars; every constellation a story. But that night the stories had been different.

"But I know grief, and I know regret," he said. "No one can ever predict the consequences any action may have. The best of intentions and the greatest of hopes can turn wrong in an instant." Had his uncle Arthur died with regrets? Had his aunt Ashara any inkling of how badly it would turn, before it happened?

She was quiet a long time, frowning at the ground. "She's still stupid," she grumbled, at last.

"As you said— I don't know her. I can't argue with that."

She laughed, startled.

"But it doesn't mean she doesn't care."

Miss Arya went quiet again, her brows furrowing to a little  _ v. _

"When did it happen?" he tried again.

"Three years ago."

He was near to an age with Miss Stark, he thought. "Three years ago, I was fifteen. Everyone's an idiot at fifteen."

"Even you?"

"Especially me."

That made the corner of her mouth tip up just a little — a small victory, but he would take it.

"I'm sixteen — what does that make me?" she asked. 

"Maybe a bit less of an idiot."

She laughed again, a halting sound, but one that held a bit of hope and healing.

* * *

 

When Prince Oberyn hosted balls, he liked to play fast Dornish dances after dinner, when the wine had loosened his guests' inhibitions enough to attempt the unfamiliar steps and stolen enough of their coordination to make it into a spectacle. But Miss Arya's eyes, as she watched pairs stumble about the floor, were still alert.

As it turned out, she learned quickly. It took her a few tries to catch on to the rhythm and pattern of steps, but once she did, she grinned wide and bright through the rest of their dance.

It was no surprise that she took to the blade just as quickly.

He had often passed Mr. Forel's fencing school without giving it a second glance, but after he happened upon the Stark sisters there he paid it more attention. A small, unassuming place. He knew no others who went to practice there — a good choice to keep her lessons a secret, and the Braavosi style suited to her strengths.

Her sister and sometimes Miss Tarth accompanied her to the lessons. Miss Stark sat off to the side, usually engrossed in a book or half-watching them practice over her needlework. But Miss Tarth gave her another opponent to practice with, so that she could learn the angles and openings exposed on a much larger target.

Miss Arya had another advantage — she instinctively used her left hand, and when Mr. Forel didn't correct her, neither did the rest of them. That habit was long trained out of most people he met, and it threw him off-balance the first time they sparred.

_ "Don't _ go easy on me," she hissed.

He was able to disarm her quickly, but he wasn't holding back quite as much as she thought. The strikes and parries drilled into muscle memory were the opposite of what he should do, and that made him slow — her strikes could be wild and imprecise, but her footwork was quick and he was on the retreat more often than he expected to be.

"Is this really your first time learning?" he asked, when the others weren't paying them close attention.

She looked at him sideways, and almost imperceptibly shook her head. "Jon taught me," she whispered.

"Jon? Jon Snow?"

"Yes," she said. Her jaw set hard, daring him to deny it. "He's my brother."

"We don't have the same thoughts on bastards in Dorne," Ned said, trying to ease the defensiveness that just snapped up.

"I suppose that's true," she allowed. "Miss Sand is… is that normal in Dorne? She's not Prince Oberyn's wife, but she acts like she is."

"They're a bit more unusual," he said. "Bastards can still hold titles and inherit, but not ahead of their siblings. And people could be offended if they are given preference over the trueborn — if Prince Oberyn and Miss Sand were to marry, it would give insult to every family whose proposal he's rejected. That's likely why they haven't." Or at least part of it. Ned didn't know how either of them thought about marriage. "They're quite committed to each other."

She hummed an acknowledgement, then was silent for a while, thinking. "I wonder if it would have been better for Jon, if he was from Dorne."

He looked at her strangely. "He is."

"He's not."

"He is — he was born at Starfall. His mother was a servant in our household."

_ "What?" _

But this was common knowledge— or so he'd thought? "Didn't your father ever say?"

"No. He never said anything." She didn't speak another word that afternoon.

Long after the sun set that night, there was a knock at his front door. Waiting for him was Miss Arya, in her men's clothes. He quickly ushered her inside and peeked around the door as he shut it.

"What are you looking for?" she asked. "No one saw me— I was quick."

But he couldn't be sure. "Why have you come?" he asked. "If anyone does see you, it'll be—"

"A bigger scandal than Robb?" she finished for him. "Maybe then the Freys won't want me anymore."

It was a joke, and not a very funny one — she knew it, too, judging by the half-grimace on her face. When he spoke with Miss Stark, she'd indicated in her roundabout, noncommittal way that the engagement was unwanted. But this was the first time Miss Arya had said a word about it.

Words couldn't make any of it better — words could not undo the necessity of her family's alliance with the Freys, nor could they undo the insult Lord Robb had done them. Pithy condolences were not enough.

Before he'd formulated a response, she changed the subject. "I want to know about Jon's mother," she said.

He brought her to the small sitting room at the back of the house, after he made certain the curtains were drawn. She poured herself a glass of wine from the half-finished bottle on the sideboard before sitting across from him.

"Who is she?"

"Wylla was her name," he started.

"Was?"

"She passed away, almost three years ago. I'm sorry, I thought you would have known—"

"Jon doesn't even know. Father never said a word."

That was unexpected, and Ned was at a loss for how to respond. Why would Lord Stark not say anything — what was there to hide?

But Arya filled the silence. "Tell me about her?"

Ned found the words for that, belatedly. "She was a maid in our household at the time, I believe. After I was born, she was my nurse, and later, our housekeeper. Sometimes she was like a mother to me, too." Especially after his own parents had passed. "She has two daughters — one would be older than Jon, and one younger. One is married now, with a baby of her own on the way, and the other left recently for the mainland and an apprenticeship. Wylla spoke of him often. Always telling me how sweet of a baby he was, and how impossible I was."

"Impossible? You?" Her brooding expression lightened with the slightest hint of a smile settling into the corner of her mouth.

He nodded solemnly. "The best lungs on a baby she'd ever heard, she always said. But she always said it like she meant the worst."

She chuckled, a few breaths of laughter that broke the tension momentarily.

"She loved him," Ned added softly. "She always said that, too." She'd said something else strange in her illness, before she died.  _ How could I not love him? The poor boy, without a mother... _

Her demeanor sobered quickly. "Why did she let him go?"

"He would have more opportunities as the son of a lord than as the son of a housemaid."

"Just for that? She never saw him again. He never knew her. She never even  _ wrote." _

"I don't think she knew how to write. Enough to manage a ledger, but not much beyond that." Ned had never thought this all the way through, he reflected, feeling a pang of guilt in his chest. He always assumed that Jon must know what had happened, that the matter was settled long ago, before Jon left Starfall. Before Ned was born.

"Would you write to him?" Arya asked. "Tell him all of this? He doesn't know anything about her, and I know he wants to."

"I'd thought to write to him before, but didn't know if a letter from a stranger would be welcome." Aunt Allyria sent a letter when Wylla died. As far as Ned knew, it was never answered.

"You're not a stranger. I'll send it on with one of mine."

"Then of course I will," he promised, and she beamed.

His heart picked up a little faster, and he took a sip of wine to distract himself — he wanted to keep making that smile happen, again and again, for as long as he would be allowed.

"If you do this again, don't come in through the front," he said, showing her out through the servants' entrance, into the night.

"Yes, the _ scandal," _ she said rolling her eyes. "If your neighbors  _ are _ spying on you, they'll have seen me enter, but not leave. They'll think you take boys to bed."

"They can think whatever they like about me — some of them probably already think that."

Her eyebrows jumped up. "What? You don't—"

"I don't. But I'm Dornish, and some people don't strain themselves to think."

"That's not fair."

"Plenty of things in life aren't fair."

Her face fell, and that sent a stab through him that jarred his senses. "I know," she said, and disappeared into the shadows without another word.

* * *

 

He got used to keeping his curtains closed at night because she appeared whenever she pleased, moving quietly enough that he had little warning. The locks were always undisturbed, and whenever he asked how she entered or exited, she only smiled. "Guess," she said, but he didn't know where to begin.

There were moments when it was easy to forget all that loomed ahead — moments it seemed like she'd forgotten for a moment, too. But these acts of rebellion were small, in the grand scheme of things. She sampled spirits from his liquor cabinet, that things that ladies weren't supposed to touch, and liked most of them. He tried to teach her to smoke cigars, which she deemed disgusting. And sometimes they went, disguised, to gambling halls, and she would make a tidy sum playing at cards.

More often there was an anger that simmered deep within her, in danger of boiling over.

Reality was, she was engaged to another. He shouldn't display his feelings openly — it was inappropriate. She resented the engagement to Elmar Frey, but that alone wouldn't change the circumstances one bit. Many people married for politics, sometimes with the will of their families overriding their own. His own parents had been arranged, as were Aunt Allyria and Lord Beric.

And Robb Stark had insulted the Freys so terribly that they demanded compensation, and Miss Arya was the price they asked. And after that...

"I won't be able to do this either after I'm wed, will I?" she asked, swishing her practice blade back and forth. 

"I think it's unlikely," he said quietly. Miss Tarth was over talking to Miss Stark while they took a break to breathe.

"Sansa keeps saying we shouldn't express our true feelings, that it's dangerous if the wrong person hears." She lowered the blade to her side. "Perhaps she's right, but then what is the point of having friends? You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"Of course I won't— I'll keep your secrets as if they're my own," he promised.

"I think it will kill me," she said. "That sounds dramatic, but they'll take away everything that is me, and then what will there be left?"

"Marry me," he said impulsively. "We'll go back to Dorne before they realize what's happened, and none of them will ever touch you."

Her eyes went very round. "No," she said, without even taking time to think.

He should have expected that — he'd never given her any real indication of his regard, and she  _ was _ engaged to another, no matter how much she disliked it — but it stung all the same. He could not show it. She had enough weighing on her mind without worrying about his hurt feelings.

"Then we'll find another way for you to escape."

She glanced over at her sister, across the room. "How?"

Aunt Allyria kept secrets from him, but he knew there was someone somewhere in Essos, someone who was supposed to be dead. If they could hide from the sight of all Westeros, perhaps they could take another, or at least explain how they had done it.

"Let me write some letters," he said. "I have an idea, but it will require some collaboration."

* * *

 

It hadn't been a serious proposal, he tried to convince himself. He had meant it, but she had no reason to expect it. They'd had no courtship; only a couple of dances, some shared fencing lessons, and a handful of moments where she'd revealed something of herself. Little moments of vulnerability he didn't think she showed to anyone else.

It was friendship. He meant it when he told Miss Stark he had no designs on her sister, no intentions other than friendship. But he would hardly be the first man to break a promise — hell, not even the first of his family in recent memory.

They were friends. That was the way she saw it, and she had no reason to think otherwise. That was the way it had to be.

Still, he needed time to collect himself. He only ran the risk of damaging their growing friendship if he went to see her when his heart still felt so raw, and he sometimes missed her lessons due to prior commitments. It wouldn't look completely unusual if he took a couple extra days to let his heart mend.

He was a couple of glasses deep in brandy that night when she startled him by sitting down beside him on the divan. He flinched; he hadn't heard her at all this time.

She shrugged. "You said not to come in through the front — are you drunk?" she asked, poking at his mostly-empty glass.

"A little," he admitted.

"That bad of a day? I've never seen you  _ actually _ drunk."

He made a noncommittal noise an she crossed her arms, frowning.

"You didn't come to Syrio's today, so I wanted to check that you weren't offended or anything that I said no. It's not you—"

"You don't need to explain," he said. "Your reasons are your own, and you don't owe me anything—"

"Shut up and let me finish," she cut back in. "It's  _ not _ you. I don't want to marry anyone. Not now, not ever. If it makes it any better, I think you'd make a good husband, and you'll want an actual wife someday anyway—"

"I don't want just any wife," he said.

"Exactly, so why were you—" She flinched and looked up at him, wide-eyed. "You— what?"

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "We don't have to talk about it."

"I think we should — why the hell would you want to marry me?" 

His face was burning now. "Do I really have to explain it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I'm not good at anything—"

"That's not true—"

"I'm  _ not _ a lady—"

"I don't care—"

"I—" Her eyes were still big and a little panicked. "I don't understand. I had no idea."

He sighed softly, forcing his voice to steady. "I didn't expect you to know — it's not like I ever said anything."

"Seven hells," she said, cheeks reddening. Then, after a moment, "You're not angry with me?"

"How could I be?" Feelings weren't things that could be controlled, and if marrying him was so far from her thoughts that she didn't even consider it as a possibility, nothing good could come of pretending otherwise. "Don't think you have to lie to spare me."

She mumbled something that sounded like  _ I'm sorry, _ putting her face down into her hands. "Why do you still want to help me?" she asked.

"I want you to be happy," he said. "You won't be if you stay here."

"Thank you," she said. "Edric. Ed."

He managed a little bit of a smile. "No one calls me that."

"I'm not going to call you Ned," she said. "That's my father's name, and that feels weird."

That comment got him thinking again.

Ned remembered little of his father, but his namesake was strange — why would Father name him for a man who had, directly or not, willingly or not, caused the deaths of two of his siblings? Never mind Ned Stark's honor; never mind that he'd returned Dawn. What was a sword worth, compared to a brother and a sister?

And Jon Snow could not be Wylla's son, as he'd been told all his life — after hearing so much about him from Miss Arya, Ned had only recently realized he was too close in age to Wylla's daughter. Who was he really?

Aunt Allyria knew something. Now that he'd reached his majority, he hoped that she might share what she knew, but now she was no more forthcoming than she was in his childhood. But over the years he'd collected the hints, the inconsistencies in her stories, the little details she sometimes let slip. The pieces of the puzzle formed a strange picture. Something to do with the Rebellion, and the Starks, and someone over in Essos. Someone who was supposed to be dead.

Everyone else who'd had a hand in it was now dead — Father, Ned Stark, even Wylla. Aunt Allyria had been only a child when it all happened. Whatever it was, she was now the only one who knew.

He posted a letter home the next morning, asking again for answers. Not only answers —  _ over in Essos, will they take another? _ he wrote.

The response he received a week later contained no answers, only questions.  _ Another Stark girl fleeing a loveless marriage? _ she asked.  _ How much will the realm bleed this time? _

_ It won't, _ he insisted.  _ We'll make it look like she's died or been kidnapped or anything else — so long as she is safe. _

He didn't receive a response for weeks this time. When he did, it wasn't from Aunt Allyria. A single line written in a hand entirely alien to him, and unsigned.

_ Send her to Braavos, _ it said.  _ We will find her and protect her. _

He showed it to Arya before feeding it to the fire.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"I don't know for certain. But I think it is my aunt Ashara," he said. He'd never said it aloud, but it was the only option that made sense. "The manner of her death was... suspicious. There was never a body found." That could also be because of the strong winds and currents off the coast of Starfall. But it was the biggest missing link. A possibility, the only one he hadn't been able to dismiss outright.

But why would she do it? That he couldn't answer.

"And she will help me?"

Ned nodded. "She loved your father."

"And she won't hold a grudge that she loved him and he didn't marry her?" she asked, her eyebrows arched alongside a skeptical frown. A moment later, she shut her eyes, cringing. "Sorry. That wasn't— I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, resting his hand next to hers. "And don't worry. I never knew her, but from all I've heard — I think you'll get along."

* * *

 

Mr. Tyrell acted oddly when they saw him at Miss Tarth's, bringing out a map and letters and unearthing the mystery about Mr. Stone. Ned had often wondered who Mr. Stone truly was — bastard names were commonly used as pseudonyms by writers seeking anonymity, which someone so controversial would find useful.

Arya found something about the conversation upsetting, staring at the letters for a long time before she jumped into the discussion, and as soon as her questions were answered she wanted to leave directly. Something troubled her, that much was obvious — but she refused to say what, caught up in her thoughts as Ned brought her back to her home.

It bothered him, too, as the evening wore on. He found himself restless and unable to focus on anything — work, books, research for Braavos. Instead he paced the halls of his house sipping at a glass of brandy, and eventually found himself up in the attic, rummaging through all the things left behind. No one had occupied this house since Father, and when Ned had arrived it was barren of all personal effects. There had to be something somewhere that could shed light on even one of the mysteries plaguing him.

He found many things, but little of use. Portraits hidden away — Uncle Arthur looking strong and solemn, and Aunt Ashara young and carefree. Old clothing — gowns that must have been hers, for they were too tall to be Mother's. There might be something of interest in Father's old business papers, but Ned didn't have the patience to sort through those just now.

Then he stumbled upon a sheaf of letters written to his aunt Ashara, signed  _ Ned Stark. _

He didn't even pick those up. That was too much to intrude on — enough for now.

As he readied for bed, there was a  _ tap, tap, tap  _ at his window. When he looked up, the glare from his lamp against the glass kept him from seeing anything outside, but he crossed the room to look closer.  _ Tap, tap, tap _ again. Squinting through the glass, he saw Miss Arya's face.

"I can't believe you lock your upstairs windows," she said as he hurried to unlatch it. "This is the third floor — who are you expecting to come climbing up here?"

"Not you," he said, grabbing her hands to help her down. She didn't need it and hopped down easily from the sill, landing on bare feet. Her shoes, tied together by the laces, swung from her shoulders.

"There's one on the second that's usually unlocked, but I saw your light and thought why wander through the entire house? It's late, and—" She seemed to notice that he wasn't wearing a shirt. "I shouldn't have— I'm sorry—"

"It doesn't bother me," he said. Blushes didn't show strongly against his skin, and the room was dark enough that she shouldn't notice, but still — as he turned to get a robe, he paused a moment to hide his face. "I'm growing accustomed to you showing up when and where you will — now what's happened?"

"It's been an exciting night, and I had to wait for everyone to go to sleep." She set her shoes on the floor, took a step forward, and frowned. "I think I kicked something on the way up." She hopped over to a chair to inspect her foot. "Oh." When she lifted her hand away, her fingers were smeared with dark blood.

"Let me help you with that," he said. It was improper, at least here in the north, outside of Dorne. But which was the greatest of their improprieties? He aided her in secret fencing lessons, she slipped away to visit him at night, disguised in men's clothing, they were alone in his bedroom, he could see her ankles, and she was engaged.

And he was helping her to escape, he reminded himself. After she left, they were unlikely see each other again.

He retrieved the washbasin and a clean cloth and sat across from her, gently washing away the blood. "It doesn't look so bad," he said, getting up again to find bandages. She didn't say anything as he rummaged through a cabinet, and when he turned back she was simply watching him. "You were telling me what happened?"

She startled just a little bit. "Oh— Sansa just got married."

That was something eventful. "When?" he asked. "To who?"

"About two hours ago," she said, glancing at the clock, "to Mr. Tyrell."

But they'd just  _ seen _ him. "How?"

"As far as I can tell, someone bribed a Septon and they're saying they've been courting secretly. Privately. Whichever one implies that we knew about it so it's not like they ran off and eloped, and Her Grace can't get offended without looking like an idiot."

"So it's the Queen who's after her?" He'd suspected — everyone speculated — but couldn't be entirely certain.

Arya nodded. "She says that this — marrying Mr. Tyrell will make her safe. But it's not that simple. Maybe Cersei can't do anything overt to the Tyrells, but she'll find a way. She always does."

He slowly sat again and, while he thought, occupied his hands with bandaging up her foot.

"I can't leave anymore," she said. "Sansa knows and she says she won't stop me, but she has other ideas, and I— I can't leave anymore. There's too much happening and I can't just disappear and leave them to it."

His heart was pounding in his throat. "If you get trapped here—"

"I can still get away. It might not be the same as we've planned, but I need to at least try. If I get free of them and can still stay here…" She trailed off, studying his face. Heat bloomed in his cheeks again. As she sat up straight, she tugged her foot from his lap and he realized he was still holding onto her. "I don't know what's happening, but we—"

She stopped, hopped to her feet, and took a step closer, still balancing most of her weight on her left. She reached out, and her fingers lingered a moment in the air. "I want to know what we—" She stopped again, and her face tightened into a mask again. "I should go," she said, scurrying away, and she was back out the window again as quickly as she came.

He leaned out of the window to watch her go, melting away into the shadows cast by gas lamps. And as he tried to sleep that night, questions spun through his head. He pressed his hand to his cheek where she had touched him. What could they be if things were different, if she was free to choose as she pleased?

He couldn't tell what the future might bring, but perhaps they would have the chance to find out.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I haven't quite figured out who is actually over in Essos. It started out as the Ashara = Lemore theory, but then... maybe Arthur and/or Lyanna are alive and well in Essos, too. I don't want anyone to die lol. Or maybe it's just JonCon and Aegon. Who knows? Not me. 
> 
> Marking this as complete for now. But there are some upcoming parts of ALJ I'm considering writing an Arya or Edric alt-POV for -- no promises, but if I end up doing that, I'll add more chapters here. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I'm on tumblr - [peggycarterisacat-fic](https://peggycarterisacat-fic.tumblr.com/) for fic updates, [peggycarterisacat](https://peggycarterisacat.tumblr.com/) for other fandom stuff.


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